Sweet Caroline (23 page)

“I believe.”

“You are so loved, sweet Caroline.”

Mercy Bea eyeballs me. “Did you color your hair? Oh.

My. Gosh. You waxed your brows.”

Giddy, I shake my head and scoop ice into a mason jar. Dupree wants iced tea this morning instead of coffee. “No, and big fat no on the eyebrows.”

“Well, something’s different. You look . . . brighter. You lost weight, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, five pounds overnight.”
And a hundred pounds of burden.

Sarcastic exhale. “You’re wearing new makeup?”

“No, again. Same ole Cover Girl.”

My wee morning encounter with the Prince of Peace has affected more than my insides, it appears.

Mercy Bea pops her hands together. “Got it. You’re in love with J. D. Am I right? It’s love. I knew it.” She squeezes my arm. “Just had to give it some time.”

I grab the basket of Bubba’s Biscuits and Dupree’s tea. “Stop guessing.”

“Oh my stars, it’s Mitch.” She slaps her thigh. “I knew that country crooner had his hooks in you.”

Mercy Bea follows me over to the breakfast-club boys. I address her over my shoulder. “Mercy Bea, don’t you have customers?”

She snaps a clean towel at my rump. “For once, you’re more interesting.”

Mercy Bea tries a few more times to get a word out of me about being in love with J. D. or Mitch, but I confess nothing. A scent memory teases my nose and almost makes me weepy.

“Leave it alone, Mercy Bea.” I retreat to the office and lock the door. My emotions are raw and tender, on the surface. Last night’s en-counter is a sacred thing between God and me, and I’m not ready to discuss it yet.

By midafternoon, rain clouds gather and break over Beaufort, wash-ing away the muggy heat of the day—if only for a moment. Miss Jeanne comes running in for her early supper, shaking the rain from her permed gray hair.

“Couldn’t run in fast enough from the car, daggum. Got all wet. And I used to run track.”

She sits at her table by the defunct fireplace. When I bring around her order, she motions for me to sit.

“I have an idea for you.”

“All right.” I perch on the edge of the seat. “What’s your idea?”

“Reminisce Night. Let folks come around and tell their stories. I bet there are a lot of memories to be shared about Beaufort and the Frogmore Café. I’m sure there’s even old pictures floating around. Pick a Sunday or Monday evening, get a microphone, and let people talk. You got your Friday night music, now add this. Mark my words, you won’t be able to seat them all.”

Miss Jeanne spears a hunk of her pot-roast casserole, a pleased look on her cherubic face.

“Good idea. I’ll talk to the crew.” We could use business. We need money.

I gather everyone together and lay out the idea, and Andy, Mercy Bea, and Russell jump on it like flies on cake. Mercy Bea’s been wanting to pick up an extra shift. Paris too.

There’s a collective “Yeah,” and bobbing of heads.

“All right. Let’s do it.” I pick a date in September for Reminisce Night, call the paper to place another ad, then phone Mitch.

“Can I impose on you once more?” I hunt around the desk for my paper clip, hoping I didn’t throw it away in the big cleanup. “Can we use your sound gear for other musicians? And we’re having a Reminisce Night.”

“Be my guest.”

“Awesome.” I sound a little giggly.

“What’s up with you, Gidget?”

“Nothing. Happy, I guess.”

He’s silent for a moment. “What’d you do, elope?”

“Elope?” I love how he’s fishing without any bait. “No. Definitely no. Mitch, J. D. and I parted ways.”

Silence. “Are you okay?”

“If you’d asked me a few days ago, I would’ve said ‘Getting there.’ But, today—”

Leaning over the desk, I tip the door closed. “Mitch, this really bizarre thing happened to me last night.”

I recap the whole God encounter, because, I have to confess, in the sensible light of day my head is starting to question the experience. I’ve never heard of such a thing happening to anyone before, not even a preacher’s son.

“That’s amazing, Caroline,” Mitch says when my story is done. “Jesus visited you. Not the first time in history He’s done that, but I don’t know of many who’ve experienced what you did.”

“W-what do you think it means?”

“Lots of things. Mostly to let you know in no uncertain terms He loves you. Don’t look now, Caroline—I think you got saved.”

I jump up in my seat as an image of a TV preacher I once saw crosses my mind. He must have said
say-ved
a thousand times. “No, no, I don’t want to be a Holy Roller.”

“Then don’t. Be a lover of Jesus. Pray, read your Bible, go to church, love others.”

“Lover of Jesus? I don’t know, Mitch, that sounds weird. Who would understand what I’m saying?”

“Plenty of people. But if you aren’t comfortable with that, say you’re a disciple of Jesus, or a follower of Jesus. Take your pick.”

I can feel my face scrunching up. Who knew church came with so much terminology. “What do you call yourself?”

“A prodigal.” He laughs. “Caroline, either way, you’ve met Him. Read the red words in your Bible and do what He says.”

A chill runs over me. “Okay.” Then, “What are the red words?”

“Jesus’ words and parables. His instructions to us.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Caroline—” Mitch’s voice warbles. “This news is better than any award I’ve ever won.”

Elle rushes me after church the following Sunday. “We’re going shopping. New clothes will cheer you up.”

“All my wealth is tied up in bathroom plumbing.” I shake my hair over my shoulders. “And, I don’t need cheering up. Really, I’m fine.”

“Okay, okay, I confess, I need cheering up.” We head straight toward her car. “I’ve been thinking: must find the planet where it’s raining men.”

“Again,” I say as she aims her key fob and bleep-bleeps her car, “I have no extra
dinero
.”

”My treat.” She flashes her palm. “No protesting.”

Forty-five minutes later we walk into the Savannah Mall and beeline it to The Limited. The store is bright and fragrant with the new-clothes smell. A very slender blonde with Jennifer Aniston hair approaches.

“Everything on this side of the store”—she gestures right—“is half off. Can I help you find anything?”

Elle-the-shopping-guru appears slightly insulted. The salesgirl should’ve recognized her designer clothes. “No, thank you.”

John Mayer sings to us via the store Muzak while Elle and I riffle through the half-off rack.

“Elle, look, why don’t you buy me lunch and call it a good day, hmm?”

She sighs, peering over her shoulder at me. “One top. Or a skirt. Both, maybe. Please. You love skirts.” Spinning around, she slaps a sage-green top against my chest. “Matches your eyes. And the scoop neck is sexy, but not too . . .” She arches her eyebrows. “If you know what I mean? Mom always said to leave them wondering.”

The soft material under my fingertips deactivates my ability to protest. “Well, maybe one top.”

“And one skirt.” Elle’s melodic laugh floats around us. “Remember when we went shopping for bathing suits and found that old blue light outside the old Kmart—”

“We convinced Larry Olsen to hook it up to work in the Mustang,” I say while surfing the sales racks.

“You got cocky one night and flashed an unmarked police car.”

For the next few minutes, we’re lost in giggles. Since the night Jesus visited, it seems easier to laugh. Even to cry.

Elle shoves several tops and skirts at me. “Don’t look at the price tag. Just try them on.”

Of course, I look at the price tag. Even at half off, the cheapest top was thirty dollars.

In the dressing-room mirror, I wince at my ET-like complexion in the harsh dressing-room lights. Despite the fright of my reflection, I slip on a top and sporty skirt. The fabric feels cool and soft against my skin. When I glance in the mirror, the creature from outer space is gone. Instead, a pretty girl with rosy cheeks, pink lips, and bright green eyes stares back at me.

The top and skirt are perfect. But letting Elle buy for me seems . . . somewhat pitiful.

“Caroline, let me see.” Elle knocks on the dressing-room door once, then barges in.

“Ta-da.”

“Lovely,” she says. “We’re getting it. All of it.”

“Elle . . . Thank you,” I whisper to my friend. “You’re too kind.”

Elle doesn’t leave herself out of the fun. Her new tops, slacks, and undies slide into The Limited bag right along with my things.

Since shopping and hunger go hand in hand, we head for the food court.

“Japanese?” Elle suggests, motioning to Sakkios.

“Sounds good to me.”

We order, then carry our trays around until we find a clean table. “I have a date tonight.” She gives her shoulders a prissy shake.

“Tonight?” I’m in mid-rip on my straw paper. “With who?” I’m sus-picious. “Operation Wedding Day is suddenly going well?”

“If you must know, yes.” Elle can’t keep her delight hidden. “The new associate pastor at church asked me to dinner.”

I jam my straw into my soda cup. “Jeremiah Franklin? You’re kid-ding. I thought he was married.”

She laughs, biting into her garlic chicken. “Me too. How does a man that cute go through Bible college and come out single? It’s a miracle.”

I stir my chicken and rice together. “So, do tell. How’d this happen?”

“He came by the gallery; we started talking and this morning he asked me to dinner. Caroline, I think this could be it.”

“It? Oh my stars, you are too much, Elle. Can he spell
renaissance
?”

“Forward and backward.”

Laughing, I toast her with my soda cup. “Kudos and congratulations. You’ll make a good pastor’s wife.”

Elle freezes, a piece of fried rice sticking to the edge of her mouth.

“What? Wait . . . I never thought of it like that. Being a pastor’s wife.” Her expression slowly morphs from exhilaration to terror.

“Well, if he’s the one—”

“Stop, Caroline, stop. It’s one dinner. What do I know? I’m getting ahead of myself here. There’re still more men on the lists, right? Jeremiah and I may have nothing in common but art.” She gulps a calming breath. “It’s one innocent date. No big deal.”

“Right, NBD.”

As quickly as the terror overtook her, it fades. Our conversation returns to normal. Until . . .

Elle jumps from her chair, her gaze fixed on some point across the food court. Her bracelets clank as she cups her hand around her mouth. “Conroy Bean, over here!”

Whipping around, I scan the mall shoppers. Where’s Conroy? Sure enough, ducking under a Titans baseball hat is Conroy Bean.

Grinning, I watch as he tries to maneuver the crowd without being noticed. Years ago when Mitch first went to Nashville, Elle invented a code name for him so when he gained mild notoriety, we could address him without creating a stir.

One afternoon, we took my little boat out to the sandbar, and Elle smacked Mitch in the head with a pluff mud ball. “I dub you Conroy Bean.”

“Conroy Bean? No way.” He smacked her back. A baseball-sized chocolate mud ball slid down her hair.

“Too late. Your alter ego is Conroy Bean.” She smacked him dead center in his chest with a softball-sized mud ball.

Hazel and I hovered together in the marsh grass like tall, featherless egrets. J. D. was with us that day. He called the mud fight like a sports announcer.

“Mitch O’Neal’s pitch is high and outside. Oh, Elle Garvey, strike one. Clean over center plate.”

Then a drunk guy came paddling by in a dinghy. “Wrestle her down, boy; it’s more fun that-a-way.”

Eight years later, Mitch-Conroy strolls across the Savannah Mall food court toward us without the slightest flicker of irritation over his alias. Under the shadow of his hat, I see his jaw is dusted with a light beard. He’s wearing jeans and an oversized white pullover. He exudes a masculine aura that makes it hard to imagine him singing a love song with power and emotion. But, boy, he does.

A picture forms in my mind. Mitch as a daddy, strolling down Bay Street, grasping the hands of his little girls. One on each side. Each with blonde curls and Precious Moments blue eyes.

And me.

No. I squirm and shovel rice and chicken into my mouth and try to ignore the cloud of butterflies beating around inside my chest. I never pictured Mitch as a daddy before. Never, ever pictured me as a mama. I was always half-scared I’d inflict my kids with the pain Mama inflicted on Henry and me.

That’s Henry’s problem, I know, when Cherry brings up the subject of children. But he’s too proud to admit it.

“Hey, you two.” Mitch-Conroy slides into the seat next to me.

“What have we here?” Elle rubs her palm against his light beard. She is brazen against personal boundaries. Re: the dressing room earlier.

He ignores her question, turning to me. “Hey, Caroline.”

“Conroy.” I smile, though my middle quivers. Ever since J. D.’s been out of the picture, the air between Mitch and me deepened—it zaps and pops with electrons as if something’s brewing.

Elle points to his shopping bag. “Conroy, you’ve been to the Family Christian Store.”

Mitch scratches his forehead with his thumb and turns his Titans hat so the bill is in the back. “I have.”

Elle snatches the bag from him. “What’d you get?”

Mitch grabs it back. “Nosy.”

But it’s too late. She’s already dipping her hand inside. “A Switchfoot CD, a Max Lucado book, and, oooohh—” Elle pulls something from the bag. “A new Bible. I
looove
new Bibles.” She pops the lid off the box.

“Elle.” I cover the Bible with my arms, glancing back at Mitch. “She’s can’t help it; she’s part puppy.”

He laughs. “Where’s a rolled-up newspaper when you need one?”

“Hey—” Elle shoves my arms off the Bible. “I’m right here, listen-ing. Oh, Mitch—”

The Bible is a beautiful burgundy leather with a name inscribed on the bottom right corner.

Caroline Jane Sweeney, Beloved

With wide eyes, Elle snaps her gaze up at Mitch. “You’re unbelievable.” With one fast-forward motion, she plants a kiss on his furry cheek. “And incredibly sweet.”

The country crooner blushes.